“When there is no enemy within, the enemies outside cannot hurt you.” — African proverb

I’ve thought much on that quote over the past several years … Lord, more than a half-decade now … as America seemed to cleave itself further and further into ideological camps that agree on less and less every time the sun comes up.

I know there’s a great silent majority who still view themselves as Americans, neighbors, and family first, Democrats or Republicans or Trumpists or Bernie Bros or whatever second.

But, my God, the rest are noisy.

I hear from them regularly, calling me a traitor for printing that column from a Democrat, that letter to the editor from a Trump supporter, that story from the Associated Press. They’re yelling at poll workers and county clerks, at school board trustees and police. They’re yelling at each other and clashing in the streets.

It’s enough to make you wonder if we might someday view last month’s violent clash in Oregon between Proud Boys and antifa protesters as our nation’s second Fort Sumter.

I don’t think that will happen, and I think we can guarantee it won’t if we remember how often the motivation behind much of this is love, even if it turns into hate.

Take, for example, my son.

When the feds made the vaccine available to those 12 and older, my wife and I prayed long and hard about whether he should take it.

We read the science and the news stories of the scattered cases of youngsters developing serious complications — even dying — from the vaccine. We prayed some more.

Then we heard from his grandparents. Repeatedly.

Two of them pleaded with us not to let him take it. They’d read the news stories about the kids who got sick or died, and they’d read other things online and heard from people they trusted that the vaccine would do everything from irreparably changing his DNA to making him sterile.

They’d prayed, too, and they — fearing for his safety — felt they heard the Lord tell them to tell us to keep that needle out of his arm.

Another of his grandparents urged us adamantly to get him vaccinated. She’d read the science and how the virus would continue to mutate among the unvaccinated. She’d watched the numbers of those killed by COVID-19 tick upwards … and upwards … and upwards, including, earlier this year, an increasing number of young people.

She’d prayed, too, and — fearing for his safety — felt she heard the Lord tell her to tell us to get that needle in his arm as quickly as possible.

My wife and I kept praying, and reading, and discussing. In the end, we decided to inoculate him. He’s fine. Didn’t even have the side effects that kicked my butt after I took my second dose.

Out there, some folks have come to fisticuffs over that debate. They’ve pummeled school board trustees, typically the most apolitical, unambitious elected leaders you’ll ever find, only there to help out their child’s school. They’ve protested outside local public health offices and accosted workers at the entrances. They’ve protested outside of governor’s mansions and state health departments and the White House.

They’ve yelled and screamed and bloodied each other and found themselves in handcuffs as they holler for a ban on facemasks or for mandated facemasks, for a ban on vaccine requirements or for stringent vaccine requirements.

Certainly, some among those noisy compatriots found themselves in the throng for no other reason than to cause trouble or score political points. Definitely, a great many of the political leaders and media talking heads urging them on want nothing more than that.

But I’d bet my vaccination card that a great, great many of the brawlers clench their fists because they love their kids and their grandkids, just like my son’s grandparents love him so very deeply. They fight because they’re willing to do harm or be harmed to protect their children, as all of us are.

If only we could see across the divide and, instead of seeing an adult face we’d like to smash, see the innocent face of the child that person loves.

Maybe then we could talk to one another, instead of yelling at one another, and we might find a way out of this vitriol.

I’ve written on that theme before, and, like then, I’ll say now that, perhaps, I’m just ignorant and idealistic.

But I know my son’s grandparents can plead with me all they want and I can make a decision counter to their pleadings, and we can still sit and break bread together.

Because I know they love him.

Justin A. Hinkley can be reached at 989-354-3112 or jhinkley@thealpenanews.com. Follow him on Twitter @JustinHinkley.